


No Light, No Light

by AnxiousOddish



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But not really the hive just works a little differently, F/M, Infected Paul, Post-Apotheosis (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 18:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21184133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousOddish/pseuds/AnxiousOddish
Summary: The hive had won. Emma was captured and alone, waiting for her inevitable demise. Whether that demise was death or something much worse, she couldn’t be sure.Perhaps the hive had miscalculated, though. They’d underestimated Paul.





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> Gotta say, didn't think I'd finish this. First time ever actually finishing a fic. Thank you to Sid, this wouldn't exist without you for so, so many reasons. Love you <3

Emma woke up yet again with a full-body ache and her cheek pressed against cold concrete. She let out an involuntary groan and squeezed her eyes tighter. She didn’t want to open her eyes. If she did, she’d see it was real. Why couldn’t she go back to her dream? Her unconscious mind had conjured such a beautiful scene: carefully tending to her farm with her friends by her side. Her friends, and her sister. For some reason, her old piano teacher was there, too, among the happy bunch, but that wasn’t important. Much better than the reality of her aching body and the claws scraping at the void in her stomach. Something wet and cold dropped onto her cheek and she flinched, rolling over and finally peeking up. That damn leaky ceiling. Wasn’t it enough that she was trapped in an unknown building by multiple possessed people? Many of them even had familiar faces. Hatchetfield wasn’t a big place, after all. Was she the only one left still human? Had the outside world given up on them? Did they even know? She supposed she’d never have a chance to find out.

It still hurt to get visitors, to see yet another face from her past. The night before, it had been her favorite high school teacher. The aliens just really wanted to torture her more, didn’t they? Couldn’t let her have a quick demise, no no no, she’d caused them too much trouble. Survived too long. She did get Paul to nearly destroy them all. So there she was, locked in a damp, stinky basement, with nothing to do but wait for more taunting and her inevitable harmonic end. 

Emma curled around the emptiness in her stomach. She was sure she would be thirsty too if it weren’t for that stupid fucking drip. She wanted to see her family and her friends; she wanted the world back. Emma sniffed and wrinkled her nose. She wanted a shower, ugh. 

The lightbulb above her flickered, and her head throbbed in sync. She had no way to know how long she’d slept or what time it was. There was nothing to do but try to escape her own mind. At least, until they decided to send someone from her past to torture her or finally welcome her into their own. At this point maybe she’d even welcome it. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so hungry.

Some time passed, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps a few hours. She heard the creak of the door opening and regained consciousness as if surfacing from water. She stumbled to her feet, but the door swung open before the spots cleared from her vision. Her heart pumped adrenaline into her bloodstream, ready to fight if they came to finally take her, her brain apparently not getting the memo that she’d given up. A tall, silver-haired man stood in front of her, back straight, arms crossed, and with a gentle, almost paternal smile. Her heart twinged. Emma reminded herself that it wasn’t Professor Hidgens. He was gone. He’d chosen this. He’d chosen those too-bright glowing eyes, the little smear of blue in the corner of his mouth. The man in front of her wasn’t a man at all, but something posing as one. Still. It hurt to see him there. She so badly wanted it to be her professor; eccentricism, madness, obsession and all. 

“What’s the point of this?” she spat. “Going to let me starve before my apotheosis?” She said the last word with the mocking it deserved. 

“No, my dear.” He reached forward and Emma stumbled away to get out of reach. Her back hit the wall almost immediately - the room was so damn small. Hidgens clasped her hands in his and Emma shuddered. Cold. Like he was dead. “I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, I promise it will be over soon. This is what humanity was always meant to be. You’ll see. Once you hear them...” He closed his eyes and tightened his grip, reveling in something Emma couldn’t hear. His lip trembled in pleasure. Emma darted her gaze away. Drip. Drip. Drip. That maddening hole in the ceiling kept going but it almost sounded like... a beat. She tore her hands away. 

Hidgens opened his eyes and looked at her with disappointment. Teacher disappointment. _ Parental _ disappointment. Emma clenched her jaw. “You’re not him. I don’t want this. Get out of my cell.” 

The professor raised his hand as if to lay it comfortingly on her shoulder, then dropped it. The second he turned away, Emma dropped to the floor and buried her head in her hands. The lock clicked in time with the next drop. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

* * *

Time in the cell was a black hole. No window, no clock, and the visitors didn’t seem to come at any regular intervals. As Emma tuned out the dripping for the sake of her sanity, she felt truly alone. She had no idea where she was, and for all she knew, the entire world had devolved into one huge musical as she sat in a tiny concrete room. When she heard the footsteps growing louder, she welcomed it. This time she managed to get to her feet quickly enough and forced away the dizziness as the heavy metal door slowly creaked open. 

Oh. Well, they finally did it. She figured they’d send in Paul eventually. They must be delighted to wave him in her face, the one who nearly ended them all. The man she grew to care for so deeply in such a short time. He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him: the same damn suit, the same unnervingly blue gaze, and a faint smear of the classic blue shit marring the white of his shirt. Emma forced herself to not shake. They stared at each other for longer than was comfortable. Emma considered, not for the first time, if she should just try to fight, but she was weak from exhaustion and lack of food, and something about the infection made them stronger than should be possible. 

Paul swallowed, and Emma swore she could hear it in the quiet of the cell. He smiled softly, and Emma ground her teeth together. The second he opened his mouth to sing a single, lovely note, she gathered the remains of her strength and threw her fist into his face. Paul stumbled back, the note cutting off, and Emma distantly realized he’d been singing her name. Paul raised a hand to his nose and brushed the blue fluid steadily leaking out, looking at it painting his fingers. He opened his mouth as if to try again, but caught sight of Emma’s still bunched fist beside her, and opted to speak instead. “I’m sorry you’re suffering. I promise, soon things will be perfect.” He smiled again, so genuine, so _ Paul. _“Can you honestly tell me you didn’t have a blast in Brigadoon?”

Emma just stared at him, trying to see past the familiar face to the infection underneath. “You’re not him. Stop pretending to be. I will _ never _ willingly join you.” Emma closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. “This is everything he hated.”

“Maybe it never was.” He said softly. Emma choked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

“Leave me alone and let me wither away in this fucking cell!” 

He looked genuinely crestfallen as he turned around, thankfully doing as she asked. “You’ll see soon.” He said melodically, almost singing, but not quite. Not enough to ignite her wrath again, but enough to irritate her. A musical _ I’m not touching you _ while hovering a finger half an inch from her nose. Dick.

Emma resigned herself to another imperceptible stretch of time with nothing but her aching stomach and the drip as company.

* * *

Emma had no idea what was taking so long. If they hadn’t forced some blue shit into her mouth yet, then shouldn’t the spores have gotten her? She didn't know how long it had actually been, but it seemed like such an endless span of time. What could possibly be the point of keeping her like this? She was so tired, hungry, and sick of forcing her thoughts away. She didn’t want to think about all the people who were dead and infected, her parents and friends, _ everyone _. She could only hope that it was contained within Hatchetfield. Truly the most miserable place. Of course, out of all places, Hatchetfield would fall victim to a mass alien plague.

Emma drifted in and out of sleep, too miserable to bother with consciousness. Her mind sank deeper and deeper, an abyss coming to swallow her up. Perhaps she should have been worried about not waking up, but she figured that was what the aliens planned. What could she do about it anyway? The void became so all-encompassing that she didn’t even notice the creak of the door and a too-cold hand being laid on her side. That was, until the world tilted sideways and she was hauled into a sitting position. It took longer than it should have for her brain to signal that this was danger and for her heart to appropriately respond by flooding her system with adrenaline. Emma flailed, knocking the hand off and skittering backward until her head hit the wall with a thud that resonated in her skull. It forced her to pause in her attack, despite the fact that everything inside her was screaming with the primal instinct to escape. As she caught her breath and her vision cleared, she realized that Paul was crouching in front of her, fist pressed to his chest as if he’d yanked it back from her the second she panicked from his touch.

“Sorry!” He breathed, his dimly glowing eyes too intense on hers, “It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.”

Emma would have screamed if she had any breath left in her. This was it. He was coming to force her to be one of the hive. He was so convinced that this was what she needed. Paul was truly gone. Emma kicked out wildly, landing a powerful blow to his chest that sent him to his back. She wasn’t going down without a fight. Sure, the hive was strong, and they had many, but she’d be damned if she couldn’t take down Paul, infection and all. 

Emma crawled frantically onto his chest and dug her knee into his crotch. Maybe she never learned any fancy fighting techniques, but she could sure throw a punch. One after another, she rhythmically bruised her knuckles with his face. Rude of him to have such a hard skull. She reminded herself that this wasn’t Paul as she watched the face of the man she cared about get progressively more blue and battered. Why wasn’t he reacting? His arms lay at his sides, not even trying to stop her assault. 

“Emma!” She punched him. “Please,” Punch. “Stop,” Punch. Was he even in pain? “I’m trying,” Punch. The blue coated her knuckles.“To help,” Punch. Shut up shut up shut up. “For fuck’s sa-” Punch. Emma was panting now, this was far more punches than she felt was necessary, but she got into the rhythm. She tried to land another blow, but they hit Paul’s hand instead, stopped in their tracks.

“_ Let me get you out of here _ ,” He sang softly, eyes wide with sincerity. Emma wanted to punch him even more now, but his free hand had wrapped around her other wrist, and they were both firmly locked in place at his chest. “ _ Take you somewhere safe _ .” Emma shook her head and tried to yank her hands away unsuccessfully. “ _ They’ll destroy you- _”

“What!?” Emma cut him off and he suddenly released her hands. He shouldn’t be so concerned about the hive infecting her. Emma couldn’t stop the faint bloom of hope rising inside her. Paul looked disheveled and desperate. He opened his mouth, but Emma raised a fist again, ready to unleash at any sign of a tune. 

“They won’t turn you. You won’t be one of us.” He said, a small dribble crawling down the side of his lip. Emma noticed with unease that his voice was perfectly monotone as if straining against the need to sing. “They’ll kill you instead.”

Emma swallowed. “What, you’re going to get me out?” Paul nodded rather than trying to speak. Emma sat there, chest heaving, knee still digging into his crotch. Not that he seemed to care. She just stared at him. His expression, as covered in gore as it was, showed nothing but pleading and fear. 

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t. It had to be a trick. But why? She was here as a captive, they had no reason to do this when she was right at their fingertips. So, against her better judgment, she slowly crawled off him. He watched her go, and only when she’d gotten to her feet did he carefully stand up. Paul wiped his face off on his jacket, exposing the crooked nose and split lip underneath. They didn’t seem to bother him. He’d left the door open when he came in, and the simple sight of a way out gave Emma a spark of energy. She didn’t look at Paul as she stepped out.

This entire time, she’d been in the supply closet of a fucking office building. The fluorescent lights burned her eyes after the single bulb she’d gotten used to, and she blinked repeatedly as she made her way through the cubicles. Emma didn’t like the way Paul trailed behind her. It felt like turning her back on a predator. As Emma passed the desks she scanned for something she could use as a weapon, picking up a stapler then trading it for a heavier, and thus more effective, hole puncher. 

Emma launched it at the first sign of movement in the corner of her eye. She wasn’t taking any chances. An unfamiliar woman let out a single note before a sickening thunk cut her off and the hole puncher punched a hole in her face. She glanced back at Paul as he used a computer cord to tie the woman up, his movements stiff and robotic. She’d never seen the infected move in any way that wasn’t either choreographed or fluid, and it set her at ease a little more to know that it could mean he was fighting the hive’s instructions for him. They scurried up the stairs past more endless, nondescript cubicles, and for the first time in god knows how long, Emma saw the sun. It looked to be late afternoon. She wanted to ask how long she’d been trapped down there, but when she turned to him in the stairwell he had his jaw clenched with effort, and she figured maybe now wasn’t the time to ask a question that required words to answer.

Emma’s heart pounded. She was beginning to trust that this wasn’t a trap, but that didn’t mean that any door she opened wouldn’t lead to a chorus of aliens waiting there to kill her. Sure, she could handle a single one if she had to, but they seemed to come in groups.

Of course, when she did open the door out of the stairwell to see just a single alien, it wasn’t a relief. Professor Hidgens startled as the door hit the wall with a bang. He stared at Emma, and his gaze hardened. He stormed towards them and Emma backed up, bumping into Paul, frantically looking for something, anything to defend herself.

Something huge whizzed past her ear, just barely missing her, and Emma instinctively ducked as a copy machine collided with her professor’s head. Emma’s jaw dropped. “Holy fucking shit, dude!” She said to Paul, who looked a little too pleased with his own strength. Emma tried to rip out another cord to tie him up, but it wouldn’t budge until Paul reached over and yanked it out like it wasn’t attached to the computer at all. She glared at him. “...You only got that because I loosened it for you.”

Emma tentatively walked toward where Hidgens lay unmoving on the dingy carpet. He’d fallen into a cubicle, and her vision was partially obscured, so she wasn’t prepared for the mess she’d see. His head was still attached to his body, at least, but that was about the only nice thing she could say about the carnage. Emma gagged and averted her eyes, attempting to bind his arms and legs without looking. Turns out a whole ass copy machine made a good weapon. 

She couldn’t see his face in the mess, but her heart pounded with more than adrenaline as she worked with trembling hands. She couldn’t tell herself that it wasn’t her professor lying there, not with Paul behind her acting at least partially like himself.

“He’ll be fine.” Paul said softly, “I’ve seen some come back from worse.”

Emma wanted to question that statement, but her bones felt like they were made of lead and she desperately needed to find some food. 

They were silent as they made their way out to the streets, partly due to Emma’s exhaustion, partly due to Paul’s building anguish, and partly because as they walked out into the blinding sun, Emma could distantly hear a parade. So they were roaming the streets with their never-ending traveling musical, then. Great. Paul’s steps were in time with the distant beat that Emma couldn’t hear, just slightly too springy, and he swallowed continuously as if swallowing away the tune building in his throat. 

Emma took the lead, not willing to trust the man beside her any more than she had to. The infected had already proven themselves to be remarkable actors if they had to be. As soon as she passed an apartment building, she turned towards it, and Paul didn’t complain. Door 1052 would do just fine. 

“Open it.” She commanded, and Paul raised an eyebrow. She raised hers higher. He tried just turning the handle which of course didn’t work, then sheepishly backed up and tried to kick it open clumsily. It flew open with a bang that made Emma flinch, and Paul tipped backward. Emma reached for him instinctively, one hand on his arm and the other grasping his shirt. She overcompensated for his weight, and as he recovered his balance, he stood nearly chest to chest with her. Maybe they stood there for a little longer than was necessary - Emma noting how he towered over her and his lack of body heat, and Paul barely breathing - before Emma cleared her throat awkwardly. She turned around and passed through the doorway. 

The apartment was significantly smaller than she was hoping for, and she realized with a full-body groan that she needed to barricade the door. Even through the walls, she could hear the chorus drawing nearer, and Emma’s fear rose in tandem. “Can you communicate with them? Like with your brain?” She asked. 

“No. Just the music.” He replied. Emma didn’t know entirely what that meant, or if she could trust his answer, but she was so _ tired _ of not trusting, so she took it at face value. 

“The door.” She said, the exhaustion evident in the words. “I’m going to check the kitchen.” Paul nodded and began lifting furniture with ease, stacking it in front of the door. Of course, if Paul could break in, so could they, but maybe it’d give them some time. 

Emma raided the cupboards and moaned as she saw them stacked with various delights. Emma didn’t bother with the fridge, not knowing how much time had passed. It didn’t matter, this was clearly a college kid’s stash, and she had plenty to choose from. Candy and ramen and chips, so many chips. She figured the owner wouldn’t mind, considering he was most certainly A, too busy singing to care about food, and B, dead. Emma went back to the entrance that doubled as a living room and made herself a dragon among her horde of snacks on the floor, devouring everything without really tasting any of it.

Paul has retreated to the bathroom and Emma could hear the tap running. Probably cleaning the gore and sweat off his face. Emma didn’t care. The clawing in her stomach gradually decreased as she forced crackers into her mouth, only slowing from the fear of choking. She didn’t even notice Paul’s return as he joined her on the floor and leaned against the wall. 

Paul picked up a chip and inspected it as if he’d never seen one before. 

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Four days ago, I guess. Before everything. Never did get my coffee that morning.” He closed his eyes. 

Huh. Four days. That was it? Four days since the beginning of the end of the world. The time before already seemed like a distant dream. “Try it. Salt and vinegar, they’re good!” He wrinkled his nose. Emma didn’t know why she wanted him to eat it so badly, it was just a chip, and one she wanted to eat, at that. Maybe it would just be a sign that he wasn’t entirely inhuman. It seemed like he could see that desperation in her eyes because he popped it in. He grimaced, then frowned, then nodded in appreciation. Paul reached for another chip. Emma smiled. He looked like a child eating something new and scary for the first time. Paul grinned at her, and Emma said, “Don’t eat all of them, I’m still the one who actually has to fucking eat.”

* * *

Eventually, Emma knew that if she ate more she’d just throw it all back up, so she forced herself to stop. She closed her eyes and leaned against the base of the chair to collect her thoughts. Enough time passed that she expected Paul to say something, so she cracked an eye open. He’d washed his face not that long ago, but the thick sheen of sweat had returned. His jaw was clenched so hard it shook, and as a tremor rocked him, Emma gathered her legs underneath her. To run or to try to help him, she wasn’t sure. Paul glanced at her, eyes bulging, and he opened his mouth but only a faint groan escaped. Knowing she might be making a huge mistake, she reached for him. He didn’t lunge for her or try to force her mouth open to make her like him, just leaned against her like she was the only stable thing in the world. His shaking was so strong that it nearly shook her in tandem, and she could almost feel the pain radiating off of him. 

“They’re coming.” He choked. “I need to join them. The hive.” Emma shuddered as the a capella outside drew closer. Paul moved to stand up, but Emma didn’t let go. There was no way she was letting him abandon her to go be a part of the collective, she wasn’t going to be alone without knowing what they’d do to him or if he’d be able to come back.

“You can’t...” she begged. Paul dropped to the ground and curled into a ball. He sang to the floor without feeling, as if giving in - some tune about how wonderful it was to be part of the hive. Emma drew closer, and Paul flinched, tensing up further. Emma froze. Did he think she would hit him? Guilt replaced fear and worry. She hadn’t realized he had to fight the need to sing, and she’d attacked him for it. Sure, he didn’t seem to feel the pain, but if he was scared of her doing it again then it couldn’t be something benign.

Emma remembered what Hidgens said, what felt like so long ago. Back when she still had hope, and he was still human. They were drawn to singing. Cold flooded Emma’s body. They were already so close that she was worried about speaking too loud. She had no idea if their senses were improved along with their strength. If Paul sang, they were fucked. 

Emma carefully laid her palms on his face and tilted it up. His voice stuttered for a moment then continued, and a small line of blue traced its way down his chin. Emma hesitated before gently brushing it away. He looked so fragile and the pain of not going to join the others of his kind radiated off him. His eyes wouldn’t tear away from hers, and it should have been unsettling. Those glowing eyes were identical to all the others who’d hurt her, and yet the pain and fear shone through them. “You can’t.” She whispered. “They’ll come for us.” Emma cupped a hand over his mouth to silence him. Paul’s shaking grew more intense as he hummed into her palm, but he didn’t fight her. 

The hive was right down the street now, and she knew that it’d be deafening soon. Logic told her that’d mean they wouldn’t be able to hear him, but Hidgens had been clear. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and desperately hoped that humming didn’t count. Paul didn’t seem capable of stopping. She was truly angry at the hive for doing this. They’d taken everything from her, and even if she had Paul now, and that was still _ if _, they were responsible for this. For the way he was curled up so tight, his knees tucked underneath him like he was trying to shrink the space he existed in and minimize the pain. They were responsible for the wetness slowly dripping onto her hand, and Emma didn’t have to open her eyes to know they were tears. Tears, but not. Not the clear fluid that it should have been. Endless signs that Paul wasn’t just himself anymore, that an alien had taken his body and mind from him, at least in part.

The chorus outside was painfully loud, but it seemed to be even louder to Paul. His trembling hands moved to cover his ears, then dropped as if he’d realized the cacophony was coming from inside his head. The lyrics weren’t perfectly clear, obscured by Paul’s humming and the pounding in her own head, but it sounded triumphant. Almost like an anthem. Emma was anticipating the sound of footsteps down the hall, or for them to say her or Paul’s name. Instead, the noise faded as the massive group finally passed them. Paul’s humming grew quieter in sync and Emma’s grasp on him loosened slightly. 

Only when the last sound they could hear was their shallow breathing did Emma remove her hand from his mouth. Almost immediately, Paul fell forward and rested his forehead on her shoulder. For once Emma didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around him. 

“I’m sorry.” They said simultaneously, then laughed. Sorry for hurting each other, intentionally or not. Sorry for the situation. Sorry for not saving each other. Their breathing grew more even and they just sat there, using each other as the anchor they needed. 

Paul sighed and leaned away first, getting to his feet. Emma joined him and said, “I bet this place is stocked with shitty beer. I’ll bet you anything this tiny shoebox of an apartment is a college kid’s.”

“I wouldn’t bet against you.” Paul said, looking at the haphazard and sparse decor. Sure enough, there was almost more beer than food in the fridge. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table and drank to make that college kid proud.

“So what happened? With the meteor?” She could guess, but she wanted the whole story. “Didn’t get close enough?”

He shook his head. “I did. Blew it up and everything. We were wrong about it being the source.”

“Then how are you one of them? And why are you still… you?”

Paul made a face like he wasn’t sure that was true. He took another swig before answering. “The spores. As soon as I got close to it, the change started.” He frowned, looking down at his hands. It was clearly a painful memory. “I don’t really know. Things slowly got clearer over those few days. Maybe I didn’t get enough in me before it exploded. Maybe I just have something to fight for.” He looked up at her.

Emma smiled. “Damn good coffee.” 

Paul dropped his head and his shoulders shook with laughter. “I’m not the only one. Some people in the hive haven’t been doing exactly what they’re told, refusing to join some numbers. The rest are furious, I don’t think it’s supposed to be possible. I figured it was a good distraction, I don’t think they’ll notice right away that I got you out. That’s why they changed their mind with you. I overheard some bitching about the trouble you gave them, and they didn’t want to risk you being even more trouble once you were infected.” 

Pride filled Emma. Good, they _ should _ have been scared of what she’d do. They were convinced she’d be able to fight it that much? Huh. The thought that they weren’t doomed, that _ humanity _ could possibly be salvaged, was a comforting one. Some were fighting. Some might not be gone. “Is it still contained in Hatchetfield?” The words betrayed the true question, _ is there still hope _?

“... I think so,” he replied uncertainly. “I can’t feel the hive that far away, but I don’t know if that’s because there are limitations to the range or because they’re not there.” He shrugged and smiled a little. Was he more cheerful now than when he’d been alive? Emma doubted she could chalk it up to the situation, so she assumed the infection just did that. They always seemed so ecstatic as they danced around. 

Emma was so tired. Did he get tired? He still looked full of energy, though by all rights he should be exhausted from everything he went through. Emma crossed her arms on the table and lay her head down. “How do we get out of this?”

“I don’t know if PEIP still thinks everyone here is dead. Though I guess they’re not far off.” He flicked the tab of his can back and forth rhythmically. It was almost soothing.

“I hope they get their shit together and do their fucking job.”

Paul didn’t respond, and Emma realized too late that their job would be to kill him. She considered speaking again, but there wasn’t an easy way to say _ They would probably try to kill you, but you’re not like the other singing, murderous, invading aliens. _So she didn’t say anything at all for a bit, just taking a swig from the can. Her head was becoming pleasantly fuzzy. 

“You know, I was given a deed for Colorado. I was _ so close _ to getting everything I wanted. One goal in my entire fucking life, and all that effort for nothing.”

“At least you had one.” He said bitterly. 

Emma lifted her head. “Land in Colorado?” 

“A goal.”

Emma scoffed. “There’s gotta be something!”

“No, really!” He leaned back into the chair. “I was a paperboy for ages before I joined CCRP. I had an accident. That dream went down with my busted arm- don’t laugh!”

Emma stifled her giggles. “Sorry, continue.”

“Seriously!” He lifted his right arm and wiggled it comically. He furrowed his brow. “I guess it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Hey, you can join in on my dream.” She said, her thoughts too blurred to really think about what she was saying. “You, me, and a fuckton of pot.”

Paul smiled. “If we ever get out of here…” He raised his hand and lifted his pinkie. 

Emma snorted, “Fat chance.” But she wrapped her pinkie around his anyway. She didn’t even flinch from the cold. 

They ended up talking for longer than Emma had planned, she just pushed back her exhaustion in favor of some more time with Paul. It was the end of the world, she’d take as much time as she could get. Paul was the one to finally suggest they go to bed. Emma raised an eyebrow salaciously, and Paul just rolled his eyes and helped her stand up. He didn’t seem nearly as drunk as she was, despite the similar pile of cans on his side. Fucker. 

It didn’t take them long to find the bedroom given the 5 square feet of the apartment. She didn’t even bother looking for a second one. 

Emma claimed the left side of the bed because it was closer to the door, and Paul didn’t protest. Emma kicked off her shoes and Paul lay his tie on the bedside table. Pajamas were a luxury that the apocalypse simply didn’t allow. Or perhaps they were too tired to raid the kid’s closet. 

“Night,” Emma mumbled. 

“Sleep well, Emma.”

Soon enough, Emma was as unconscious as the dead should be. 

* * *

Consciousness came sluggishly. Emma didn’t immediately feel the pressure against her back or the arm slung over her stomach, but when she did, she froze. Where was she? This wasn’t her bed. There shouldn’t be anyone there. As her thoughts cleared slightly and revealed a mild headache, Emma remembered. Paul. Well, that explained the lack of body heat. So Paul was a sleep cuddler. After days alone in a cell, she wasn’t exactly complaining. A warm shower was absolutely the priority, though.

Emma untangled herself from his limbs carefully, trying not to wake him, and made her way into the bathroom. She stood there for a moment, trying to hear any sign of where the hive members were. The only sound was Paul’s soft snoring just outside the door. She’d ask him when he woke up, it seemed like he had a sense for it. Alien-homing-radar Paul could come in handy. Not that he hadn’t already - she’d be dead if it weren’t for him. 

Emma pulled off her clothes and set the shower to the perfect temperature: lava fresh out of a volcano. If she wasn’t a lobster by the end of it, then she’d done something wrong. As soon as the layers of grease and grime peeled off her, Emma grinned. Sure, the situation was horrendous, but she was _ clean _. Without thinking about it, Emma fell into her usual shower routine. She sang softly to herself, the acoustics in the bathroom barely picking her voice up. She only got a few bars out before she realized what she was doing and spent the rest of her shower in silence. 

The idea of putting on that filthy mandatory work uniform over her freshly scrubbed body was detestable, and Emma decided ill-fitting college kid garb beat disgusting barista outfit any day. Emma wrapped her towel up tight and stepped out into the still-dark bedroom to get to the closet. Paul was sitting up on the edge of the bed, tightly knotting his tie around his neck. Why was he still wearing that? His clothes did look clean - it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had time to wash it. A tie in the apocalypse. Maybe it was for comfort; one of the last links to the time before. Something familiar from a time when he was human, and the biggest thing he had to worry about was getting reports in on time. Emma swallowed the lump in her throat.

Paul’s faintly glowing eyes landed on her and Emma stood up straighter. “You have a beautiful voice.” Emma gave him the finger and smirked at him. He grinned back. He shouldn’t have been able to hear her, and they both knew it. “You do! It sounds… Real. I’ve heard a lot more singing than would have ever expected this week, and I think yours is my favorite.”

“You’re a sap.” Emma rummaged through the closet, comforted to find some simple cotton t-shirts and some jeans that would have to be bunched up at the bottom, but would fit otherwise. She was oddly pleased that he enjoyed her voice. It wasn’t that she’d disliked singing, she’d chosen to be in the school musical after all, it was just performing some stupid tip song without being properly compensated that pissed her off. 

Emma tried to not think about how Paul should have hated all singing, including hers. That was one of the first things she’d ever learned about him, and maybe it wasn’t exactly an endearing quality, but it was uncomfortable to think about how that’d changed.

Emma backtracked to the bathroom to put on the clothes she’d scavenged before walking to the kitchen, fully dressed. Paul sat at the kitchen table among all the cans they hadn’t bothered to throw away. He was lost in thought, his fingers drumming on the hardwood as he rested his chin in his other hand.

“Nice shirt,” Paul smiled.

Emma looked down. The words “Sycamore High Timberwolves” were garishly emblazoned in orange across the gray cotton. “Why, thank you!” She mock bowed. “Coffee?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.”

“Where are they now?” Emma asked as she worked the coffee machine. “The hive, I mean. They seem to move in groups.”

Paul nodded. “The nearest bunch is in…” He scrunched up his nose in concentration, and Emma realized it wasn’t crooked like it was the night before. “Oakley Park? Around that area.”

Huh. She was fairly sure she knew where she and Paul were. They’d passed a few familiar buildings on their way to the apartment. Oakley was about a 20 minute walk. She relaxed a bit. Paul would mention if they started coming their way. Or he’d just start singing. Whatever came first. 

Emma poured him a mug first, more habit from work than anything else. “One black coffee. That’ll be $3.50.” 

He took a sip. “Considering I can’t be sure if you spit in it or not, maybe I should get a discount.”

Emma dropped into the chair across from him and took a gulp. “Nope. No spit, and it tastes wonderfully devoid of blue goo.” Paul grinned mischievously. “That was absolutely not an invitation to add any!” Emma stuck out her tongue. Paul laughed infectiously, and Emma smiled, but it tugged at her heart. Maybe a bit too soon for those kinds of jokes. It just made her remember his very real attempts to convince her. Paul seemed to see where her thoughts led on her face.

Paul’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have any choices taken away from you. I shouldn’t have tried to make you choose like that.” 

Emma looked down at her coffee. “You already apologized. You weren’t yourself, it’s fine.”

“I wasn’t all gone at that point.” He corrected. “I didn’t think. Just because I-” He cut himself off. 

Just because what? Just because he was partially infected didn’t excuse his actions? Just because he _ enjoyed _ being one of them didn’t mean she would? She didn’t want to know. “It’s fine.” She repeated. Though it wasn’t, really. She didn’t want to dwell on it. She’d seen his eyes when he’d come to visit her the first time. No matter what he said, they weren’t as clear as they were now. Every time she looked at him, he seemed more human. More clear-headed. Maybe staying away from the hive helped?

The conversation faltered, and the slight tension between them made Emma’s heart heavy. She knew it wasn’t a big deal, they’d been through a lot and it’d be ridiculous to expect them both to wave away everything that they’d done to each other. Emma didn’t think it was enough for a permanent wedge. They only had each other, when it came down to it. Or at least, that’s what she assumed.

“Am I the last one?” She asked. Paul caught her drift.

“I think so. The last in Hatchetfield, at least.” 

Emma nodded and inhaled deeply, the smell of her coffee comforting. Maybe Hatchetfield wasn’t too populated, but there was no way they’d be able to get to the shore without running into some of the hive. “I’m never getting off this island, am I?”

Paul bit his lip and resumed drumming his fingers. “I was thinking about that. Assuming they’re too busy to notice you gone, or they assume you’re dead, there might be a way to sneak you through. I can sense the others, but you’re a gap. I don’t feel you there. If they’re not looking for a gap in the crowd, you might be invisible. There’s a big performance throughout town every day. Something to boost morale and get the members who aren’t entirely part of the collective on board. Weed out and punish the ones who don’t join.”

Emma’s stomach turned. That explained yesterday’s parade. She didn’t want to think about what punishing meant. “What are you suggesting? They’ll be distracted and we could sneak past?”

He grimaced, and Emma’s heart dropped. “They’d notice me not joining that close by. You could go alone?”

Nope. Absolutely not. Not an option. There were multiple practical reasons for her automatic hatred of the idea: the fact that she couldn’t be sure he’d be able to join back with her or if he’d be absorbed into the collective, the chance that they might notice he wasn’t quite as compliant as he should be, or the fact that without his radar, she wouldn’t know where to go. She knew that wasn’t why, though. She just couldn’t bear the idea of being alone and worrying about him. Paul saw it in her expression, and his face softened.

“What about hiding you in plain sight? If we joined in...” He said it like he was proposing a business idea to his boss, not like he was telling Emma that they should perform a part in a musical, a part she didn’t know, surrounded by aliens that wanted to kill her. 

“Oh yeah, they wouldn’t notice me at all! The one fucking human who doesn’t know any of the choreography or lyrics. I’m sure it’d go just fine!” She gave the idea the mockery it deserved, more out of fear of the idea than any conviction that it wouldn’t work.

“I could teach you.”

“How much of this is just you wanting to go put on a show with the others of your kind?” She snapped. She regretted it as soon as she said it. Any desire he had to go wasn’t his own, he’d proven that much.

Paul sat back and exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I think it’s our only hope.” 

Emma thought about it. If she slipped up or stood out in any way, they were fucked. If he was wrong and they were actually looking for her, they were double fucked. “Do you think we could get to the docks on the east side?” It wasn’t that far, and not for the first time, Emma felt just how physically close she was to freedom.

Paul nodded, but he looked nearly as uncertain as she did. He squinted at the clock on the wall. “We should have about 6 hours to get ready.”

“I thought I left the fucking rehearsals behind in high school.” She swallowed the last of her coffee and went to scrounge together some breakfast. She’d need some energy if she was going to learn it all perfectly in one afternoon. 

* * *

Emma was frustrated. Of course the steps weren’t simple, why would they need to be? Everyone in the hive would just automatically know it. The lack of room in the apartment wasn’t easily overcome, either. From Paul’s estimates they’d be near city hall, with all the space they’d need to act out their terrifying flash mob. 

There was also the singing issue. He couldn’t just sing it and have her repeat it back, or get the tune memorized. If they sang for too loud or too long, they could be hunted down like prey. Paul wrote down the lyrics, a chilling ballad about how humanity was doomed and wasn’t it _ delightful _how they were all free and happy? He’d sing one line to help her get a sense of where the syllables lay, and concentrate for a moment to make sure they hadn’t been noticed, before nodding at her to try when he was sure they were safe. It was slow going. 

Sometimes Paul would say something like _ the next line is two beats after that last chord, _and she’d remind him that she couldn’t hear any chords. This was so easy for him, and yet his patience never wavered. He grew visibly nervous as the hours passed, but whenever she struggled with a step, he was there to guide her. 

Occasionally Emma would catch herself having fun. Paul was a surprisingly good teacher and watching him dance like it was all he’d ever wanted to do was amusing. Then she’d remember the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t a silly little high school musical they were putting on, and he wasn’t just another talented theatre kid. This was life and death, and he was only so skilled because he was forced to be. 

Still. If Paul was as aware of that fact as she was, he didn’t seem to mind. 

As their deadline neared, Emma could hear them drawing closer. It seemed like they were pressing in on all sides. She couldn’t find the source. It was suffocating to her, and the hive wasn’t even in her head. As they prayed that she had learned it well enough, he grew visibly sicker. His eyes were wide and his face was slick and red. Emma squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. She bit back her yelp. Fucking hell, he really didn’t know his own strength. “_ Hey _,” she said. “It’ll be alright. We’ve got this. We’ll be far, far away soon.” She didn’t know if she was trying to convince him or herself. 

Paul lifted a finger and walked unsteadily back to the bedroom. 

“What are you doing?” Emma asked, but she wasn’t really expecting a response. He was well past the point of normal speech. He came back with an oversized gray hoodie with the same horrid Timberwolves logo and a pair of aviator sunglasses. 

Emma caught on. If they were wrong and they were looking for her, she’d at least have a disguise. 

The chaos outside nearly made the walls shake. Emma looked around the apartment. With the furniture thrown haphazardly to the side from where it had been barricading the door, and the wild array of candy wrappers and chip bags… she was weirdly attached to this little home. Maybe because it was the first place she’d felt remotely safe in days, or maybe because she’d shared it with Paul. 

Emma turned to him as they stood by the door, ready to leave. If this was the last time he’d see her alive, she wanted it to count for something. She got up onto her toes and his panicked gaze softened. His arm gently wrapped around her waist and he leaned to meet her. She could feel his shallow breath brush her lips and then…

He coughed.

Emma closed her eyes and slowly lowered her heels. “Yup.” She wiped the blue shit splattered on her face with the palm of her hand. “Guess I should have expected that.” Thank goodness none managed to get into her mouth.

Paul looked like he was having an internal one-sided argument with God, and he was losing. 

“Another time.” She sighed. Emma opened the door. 

* * *

Paul took the lead almost immediately, drawn by a rope that Emma couldn’t see. Emma forced herself to breathe steadily. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to rely on Paul too much for this. She just hoped that when the time came to break from the group and run that he’d come. She’d carry his ass if she had to. 

As soon as Emma saw the crowd, she understood why the sunglasses were so vital: it was a sea of glowing blue eyes. Hers would stick out like a sore thumb. 

God, was all of Hatchetfield here? So many people were singing. Emma wanted to cover her ears but she couldn’t. Her drama teacher told her once that she should be an actress, and now it was time to test that out. Emma plastered on a smile and hurried to follow Paul into the current of aliens flowing down the street. The first part wasn’t going to be too hard - a sort of skipping, joyful march, some hand movements. Emma didn’t account for the lack of room she’d have to get it wrong. If she was off by a beat, she would swing her hand into someone else’s. 

Emma’s heart thundered in time with the beat she couldn’t hear. She was utterly surrounded by predators who wanted her dead, their eyes bright and void of life. Her brain became mush after the first hour of practice, nothing but a blur of lyrics and what her feet were supposed to be doing at any given time. Emma had to focus. Focus past the adrenaline, the aliens surrounding her on all sides, the occasional familiar faces. Every time the movements let her see Paul to her right in the corner of her eye, she felt a painful twinge in her chest. There was nothing recognizable there, just one of the many creatures invading her planet. The terror kicked up a notch. Surrounded by all these people, she was alone.

She managed a while before making any mistakes, longer than she could have expected. When she inevitably flubbed, singing the wrong verse at the wrong time, she was expecting to be jumped and torn to shreds before she could catch her breath. Nothing happened. Everyone around her was too busy being part of a happy little musical to focus on her. Still, she couldn’t drop her guard. Not that she was inclined to; the peppy little ditty they sang was the most terrifying song she’d ever heard. Having Paul sing it to her in bits for her to memorize was a far cry from the beautiful sounding war cry flooding the streets.

The crowd began to split up as they neared town hall, into groups of tens or so. Strange that not being flanked by as many of them made her feel more unsafe. Emma did her best to keep up with Paul and stay inconspicuous as she made sure to stay close to him. 

She hadn’t given her voice this much of a workout since high school. It would have been fun if revulsion from the lyrics wasn’t crawling over her skin, or the threat of death, or the sight of Paul with nothing Paul left in him, or the… Everything. Maybe there was nothing fun to be found in it. Finally, _ finally, _ the end drew near. They were nearing the alley that Paul said they’d sneak off into. Then it was just a bit of a walk. Emma didn’t think about how she’d get Paul to come quietly, she just poured her heart out and followed the steps to the best of her abilities. Her hopes rose, would she really make it to the end of the song with no issues? Ha, not so bad for a little Hatchetfield barista, she-

Emma missed a step, her toe hit her heel, and she went flying. She yelped, and the dissonance of her frantic noise sounded much louder than it should have. Seven murderous aliens froze and turned towards her in unison. Paul was one of them. Her bones turned to ice.

“Paul? It’s time to run.” She said desperately. No response. 

“You.” They all said with a shared voice. 

“Fuck!” Emma nearly tripped again in her hurry to turn and make her way down the street, pulling off the sunglasses and shoving them in her pocket. She couldn’t make it to their planned alleyway, but that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting far, far away. 

“After everything you have done, all the times you have evaded us, you deserve only the most painful of deaths, Emma Perkins.” Their voices filled the street as she gained momentum, and she glanced back to see that they weren’t chasing after her. The pounding she heard wasn’t their feet, just her heart. She kept her pace and as she turned her head she saw six of them raise an arm outstretched simultaneously. They pointed at her, and Paul started to run. Like he was a dog playing fetch. Emma swallowed. Of course they’d make Paul do it, what could hurt more?

She needed to snap him out of it, but Emma couldn’t breathe and yell at him at the same time. She’d think of something when they got closer to the dock, she had to. His thundering steps grew closer and closer, and her hopes shrank. His legs were so much longer than hers and it’s not like he could get tired. His fingertips brushed the back of her neck and Emma choked out a sob. She couldn’t run any faster. His hand closed shut around her throat and suddenly she was in the air, being shoved against the brick wall like a ragdoll carried by a careless child. Paul didn’t loosen his vice-like grip even as a crack reverberated through her skull, and Emma gasped for air that she didn’t have access too.

There was nothing in Paul’s expression as blue fluid coated his lips and escaped to his chin. None of the hive’s anger towards her, or enjoyment of his victory. Nothing but a tool to be used for her demise. Emma wanted to scream. Scream in pain, in terror of what would happen to her, but mostly, in frustration. This wasn’t _ fair. _ They were so close - she could hear the waves in the distance calling to her, the sound of her freedom. After she was gone, either truly dead or part of the hive, Paul’s mind might clear once more and he’d remember. He’d remember what he did to her and how they’d failed. 

Forcing herself to focus past her burning lungs and the spots clouding her vision, the animal panic telling her to kick out pointlessly, to _ struggle _, Emma looked at him. As her windpipe was slowly, agonizingly crushed, she did everything she could to express to him with her eyes that it wasn’t his fault. That she forgave him. It wasn’t him. 

Emma prayed it would be over soon. She hoped they’d let her die instead of joining the hive. She wasn’t sure she could fight it, and the idea made her sick in a primal way. The ink blotting her vision grew, and the pain grew distant. Her thoughts faded, and the last of the fighting instinct faded. Maybe she’d finally see Jane soon. The last thing she saw before black flooded her vision was Paul’s eyes. 

But then Emma was coughing, her lungs sucking air desperately. Every single hacking breath was agony as it tore through her. Her vision hadn’t recovered and her body wasn’t under her control. For a moment, she thought that it was simply how it felt to be a part of the hive. God, she was so fucking tired of the pain. It had been so close to being over. As the ringing in her ears faded, she distantly heard a frantic voice, but there wasn’t enough oxygen in her brain to process who or what it was. The world tilted and Emma assumed she was passing out again, but no. That was wind on her face, pressure under her knees. She forced her eyes open and waited for her lungs to feel the right size again. They felt like they couldn’t contain a single breath, and it hurt to try despite the fierce need to fill them more than that.

“I’m so sorry, oh god, oh god, please be okay!” Paul’s voice was strained as he repeated his apologies over and over. Paul was there, carrying her bridal style, and he sounded like himself. Relief flooded her, sweeter than the air rapidly filling her lungs. The world grew clearer, and with it, so did the pain. There was an acute stabbing in the back of her head, and even without the coughing, her lungs were screaming. The buildings on each side of the street whizzed by and it hurt her eyes, so she forced her heavy head to turn. As she did, a drip fell onto her cheek, and she remembered her cell. No. She wasn’t trapped anymore. Paul has gotten her out, and even if they weren’t safe yet, at least they were free. He was looking straight ahead, mumbling in panic as he ran. Emma lifted a weary hand to wipe a blue tear from his cheekbone, hand shaking. 

Paul looked down at her and rasped, “I’m sorry.”

Emma didn’t have the energy to respond, not with her throat still full of gravel, so she just leaned her head to his chest. She knew they were still in danger, the footsteps chasing after them were distant yet present, but she didn’t have the energy to focus on that. Everything was clouded, soft, and her head beat like a drum. Paul was so careful not to jostle her that she was only gently rocked, which she appreciated given that even that slight motion was painful.

“We didn’t make it far enough. I don’t think we can get to the dock.” He choked, clearly more panicked than she was capable of feeling. Still, distant alarm bells flared in the back of her mind through the haze. Emma needed to focus. She had no idea how close they were to the shore, or what they’d do when they got there. It was a terrible time to have her thoughts repeatedly evaporate like dew in the sun, jumping from one topic to the next with no consistency or coherence. Emma’s head was on Paul’s chest and there was no heartbeat. He wasn’t breathing heavily at all despite the speed he was racing at. Her knee hurt. Was that water she could hear in the distance, or the blood rushing in her ears? She forced her thoughts to clear and as they did, the adrenaline returned. They were fighting for their lives. Right. 

Her throat still felt too tight to speak and tell Paul it was alright, and express her gratitude that he was able to fight it. She looked around, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. It seemed to be a winding side street lined with small houses, a neighborhood she didn’t recognize. That didn’t bode well. When she was a child she’d spent a lot of time fucking around with friends by the docks after school. If she didn’t recognize the area at all, then they couldn’t be close. 

Emma grasped Paul’s arm and peeked behind him. Six pairs of glowing, furious eyes stared back at her, maybe 20 feet away. “Oh, fuck,” she said, her voice like sandpaper had rubbed it raw then ran it over with a car for good measure. She tucked her head back by Paul’s chest and patted his arm. “Thanks for the ride, pal. Happen to have a plan?”

“Nope!” He said with false cheer and wide eyes. 

“Sounds good!” 

Emma didn’t particularly want to look at the aliens keeping pace behind them, so she tried to keep track of the sound of their footsteps. They didn’t seem to be drawing nearer, thankfully, but eventually this street would open up and things could change. She was convinced that Paul could run forever, but so could they. 

Emma fought back her fear. Fear was never her prime motivator, spite was. She’d show those fucking aliens that they couldn’t get her; that despite everything, she’d survive. A metaphorical middle finger to their attempts. Actually…

Emma leaned around to peer at the hive again and gave the ones chasing her a _ literal _middle finger. They all scowled, and their pace increased. Whoops. Emma turned back around to see that they were nearing the end of the street, and thank goodness, that was water. Of course, water was useless if they couldn’t get across it. Sometimes people left their canoes and kayaks out for the taking - she’d used that little fact to her advantage quite a bit as a teen. 

Hope filled her chest. They’d gotten so, so lucky. A canoe was up the beach, a bright red beacon calling them to safety. Paul saw it too, making a beeline towards it. As soon as they hit the sand, his steps slowed, and the steps behind them gained ground. Emma wriggled, signalling that she wanted to be let down to help push it into the water. She didn’t think there was enough space between them and their pursuers to do it with any time to spare. 

As soon as Emma hit the uneven ground, she wobbled, but she stayed standing. Emma didn’t turn back as they pushed, Paul’s strength helping them get it through the sand faster than she could have hoped. The first shock of cold water hitting her ankles was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt. It meant they’d already made it further than she’d imagined. Paul turned sharply, feeling how close the hive had gotten before she did. A short, dark haired man lunged for her, but Emma was faster. She grabbed the oar in the base of the boat and whacked him in the head with a thunk. The splash as he fell face down into the inch of water was immensely satisfying. 

The others weren’t far behind, but she had enough time to scramble into the back of the canoe. Paul stood there stiffly, either fearing that he wouldn’t make it or struggling to resist the hive’s commands. 

“Come _on_!” Emma snapped, reaching up to pull his tie. He was shaking slightly as he climbed across the edge, water soaking his pants up to his knees. 

Emma wielded her oar like a baseball bat, ready to get a home run the second those bastards tried to get their hands on her or the boat. Paul was rowing before they had the chance, and they were off. As the distance grew, Emma’s staggered breathing settled. The hive screamed in fury, but didn’t follow into the water, maybe knowing they could never swim to catch up with a boat powered by the strength of one of their own. 

She didn’t loosen her vice grip on her oar, even as her knuckles ached. 

* * *

  
Most of the trip was spent in silence, both of them recovering and staring ahead. Emma realized that she should probably help row a little too late, but as soon as the tip of the oar reached the water, Paul spoke up. 

“Don’t worry about that, I can row.” He said it so softly, and his words weren’t an apology, but they sure sounded like one. Emma pressed her lips together and rowed in time with him. He’d already made it up to her by helping her get this far. Her arms burned sooner than she would have liked, but she kept at it. This kind of pain was welcome. One she chose. 

The silence was welcome, too. They’d have plenty of time to talk later. 

The boat hit the Clivesdale shore with a thunk, and Emma got out first. She reached her hand out to Paul’s and helped him out, though he didn’t need it. Once he was out and standing in the frigid water beside her, his hand loosened, giving her permission to let go. She didn’t, and he exhaled, grasping her hand like it was a lifeline. They trudged out of the water, not bothering to bring their canoe too far up the shore. So what if it drifted off to sea? 

Paul used his free hand to wipe his face with lake water, clearing it of any remaining blue marks.

“Now what?” She said once they got onto the beach. 

“I didn’t think that far ahead.” 

Who could they tell? Clivesdale was under the impression that Hatchetfield was no more, and if they went up to the nearest person they could find telling a tale of musical loving alien zombies, everyone would think they were insane. The cops? Paul was proof enough that their story was true, but Emma knew in her gut it was a terrible idea to expose Paul in that way. She couldn’t tell everyone what the hive had done with a member right beside her. 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the sunglasses. They were cracked in both lenses and the arm was bent, but maybe it’d be enough to hide his most visibly inhuman feature. It wasn’t a plan, but it was a start. 

“Stop right there!” A deep male voice called out from somewhere to their left, and they both turned. Emma’s eyes landed on a tall man in a dark uniform and another similarly dressed man to his left down the beach, but it didn’t register in her brain. She just saw the muted sunset shine off the barrel of the gun. A shot rang out, echoing across the water. Paul dropped. 

Emma screamed, her throat tearing, but it was nothing compared to the pain of seeing him crumple. She dropped the sunglasses and fell to her knees. She didn’t think - just shielded his limp form with her own body. 

Paul’s eyes were wide and distant, looking at her but not seeing anything. Emma wanted to shake him to his senses, but the hole in the middle of his forehead and the gore splashed across his face just made her sob uncontrollably. The sand greedily soaked up what she assumed would have been a rapidly growing puddle of blue blood. 

They could shoot her next, but she didn’t care. Paul was lying there with no life in his eyes, the glow so faint, and Emma had no energy left. No hope. 

In an absence of hope, there was fury. After all this, everything they’d been through, they’d be stopped in the precise location that they’d deemed safety. She looked up. The armed men marched in unison towards her, though both their eyes were dark. Human. 

Emma didn’t move from her perch next to Paul’s body, forcing the heaving sobs down. Through the instinctual reaction to seeing him shot, Emma remembered that he could recover. Sam had, though it had taken a while. 

“Ma’am, please step away from the infected one. He’s not who you think he is. We’re here to help.” The one in the lead spoke with the same deep voice from earlier. He was taller than she thought at first glance, an absolute mountain of a man.

Emma almost laughed through her sobs. “He got me out! He saved my fucking life and _ you,” _ she looked at both of them with every once of anger she had in her body, which had always been a rather impressive amount for her small stature. “You know _ nothing _about him, we were finally safe! We were supposed to be safe…” Emma trailed off. 

The young-looking blonde man glanced to mountain man, who was clearly his superior. He didn’t seem convinced, exactly, just confused. “How did he help you?” He asked gently, clearly not believing her, but wanting to be careful with her distress. 

“He snuck me out of my cell and got me off the island.” She didn’t want to tell these people the whole story. “Wait, how do you know about this? I thought Clivesdale was under the impression that a ruptured gas line wiped us off the face of the planet. Are you with PEIP?”

The tall one raised an eyebrow, and blondie grinned at her. She wanted to smack him. “We sure are! We’re stationed here to make sure no one makes it out while headquarters works on a solution to the Hatchetfield problem.” 

“That’s classified information, soldier Davenport, do you plan on telling this young lady your whole life story next?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Davenport blushed and gave Emma a shrug. He seemed to be under the impression that they were on friendly terms.

“Please,” she began, disgust rolling down her spine at the single word, “let us go. He fought the hive. If we got further away from them I think he’d…” She didn’t finish. Recover? Have his mind be truly under his control again? She couldn’t bear to look at Paul’s face, but she laid a hand on his shoulder. 

The Lieutenant looked unconvinced, but Davenport was intrigued. Emma knew she needed to sway the man in charge, but she’d take what she could get. 

“T-The hive is having issues with the infected. A bunch of them are fighting it. It’s why I’m still alive; they were too busy trying to get everyone under their control to deal with me. Maybe that’s why they haven’t invaded further yet.” 

Soldier Davenport stepped forward, and Emma tensed up, leaning over Paul a little more. “I have a cousin there, do you know if he’s one of them? Marcus Davenport, light brown hair, brown eyes- wait. I guess they’d be blue now. Anyway, he would have just graduated from Sycamore.” The Lieutenant sighed as Davenport spoke, clearly used to his breaking of protocall. 

Well, that explained why he was so quick to believe her. He’d lost someone. Emma shook her head, and the young main looked crestfallen, so Emma continued. “I don’t know, I was stuck in a cell until yesterday afternoon. He could be!” She tried to force optimism in her voice, to convince him there was a reason to let her and Paul go. If he was fighting it, then maybe his loved one was too. 

“Sir, maybe we can-” 

Paul gasped, his limbs jerked, and two guns were trained on his head in an instant.

“Don’t you dare!” Emma snapped at them. The Lieutenant’s barrel didn’t falter, but he didn’t shoot. Davenport’s gun dropped an inch before he remembered that she didn’t have any power over him and raised it again.

Emma looked down at Paul. The hole had thankfully mostly closed, and he was looking up at her. At his angle, all he’d be able to see was her and the sky tinted pink and orange from the sunset - none of the danger just a foot away. “You’re okay.” He said. Emma squeezed his shoulder. He’d gotten shot in the goddamn head, and his first thought was to worry about her. Thank goodness he wasn’t singing. This was just another deadly performance. One wrong step, one wrong note could spell their doom. “Are we safe?” He sounded as tired as she felt.

“Not quite.” She responded, looking up at the men.

“He’s not singing.” Soldier Davenport whispered. Paul startled, trying to sit up so he could see the situation. He was unsteady, though considering the hole still in his head, he was managing remarkably well. Emma kept a hand on his back to help him and as reassurance for both of them. A high pitched noise escaped his lips and his eyes darted back and forth between the faces of their assailants. The Lieutenant’s lip curled, but even he seemed uncertain. 

Emma swallowed. “PEIP gave me land in Colorado. It should be under Kelly Kirkwood. Please just let us go.” The Lieutenant didn’t lower his gun an inch, just moved to holding it with one hand as he pulled out a phone. She and Paul didn’t say anything as he made a call to confirm that what she said was true. Davenport stared at Paul in wonder the whole time, which would have been almost funny if he wasn’t still pointing a gun at Paul’s face. Paul looked incredibly uncomfortable with the whole situation. Just nightmare after nightmare for both of them.

The call lasted longer than she’d expected it to, and only hearing half of the conversation was infuriating. This was their lives he was talking about, debating whether they had a right to be free, and she wasn’t allowed a say. 

Emma knew that even if they decided Paul wasn’t to be trusted, they’d likely set her free. She wasn’t infected and they had already decided she’d get a new life and name before that whole plan had gone to hell. She simply couldn’t untangle her future with Paul’s anymore, they’d been through too much together. They hadn’t actually known each other for long, but it didn’t matter. Maybe Paul was thinking the same thing, because he wrapped his hand around hers. They held onto each other tightly as they waited for their sentence. 

He finally finished his call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, lowering his gun. Blondie followed suit, until the tall man raised a hand to halt him. A one gun situation instead of a two gun situation. That was progress?

“Kelly Kirkwood? We here at PEIP are shocked and pleased to see you alive. We’d like to formally escort you to Colorado.” He sounded like he was reciting a script, and the words washed over her. Paul squeezed her hand.

“I’m not going without Paul.”

The Lieutenant was annoyed but not surprised, and he nodded. “We have a plan for him.”

* * *

The flight to Colorado was terrible. The huge, luxurious private jet wasn’t enough to make it better. The last time Emma had been in the air, they’d crashed, and Emma’s leg hurt with the memory. Her seatbelt was uncomfortably tight, but she was sure it was nothing compared to the ropes binding Paul’s arms and legs to the seat. He didn’t complain at all as they jabbed him with needles to take vial after vial of blood. A muscled woman with long silver hair tied up in a braid who introduced herself as Rose sat across from them, cheerfully explaining that they’d suspected the hosts of the infection weren’t entirely lost, and that Paul would be a vital piece of research in hopefully finding a cure. If they could figure out how it worked, maybe they could reverse it.

Emma’s teeth were being ground down to nubs. They talked to her like he wasn’t there, like he was just a dead body to be used for whatever they needed. The only time he was directly spoken to was when a nurse told him to throw up into a cup. Paul glared at her and squeezed his lips shut until she gave up. Still, she took skin samples, cheek swabs, hair, everything they could get. Emma knew it was for a good cause, and she wanted that cure, but watching Paul silently accept everything they were doing to him made her blood boil. Maybe Rose could see that she was about to boil over, because she suggested to the nurse that maybe she had enough samples for the time being. 

Emma asked plenty of questions about what PEIP intended to do, and what they knew about the infection, but after the fifth “That’s classified,” she gave up and watched the clouds go by outside the window instead.

After everything they’d been through, Emma couldn’t quite believe that it was almost over. Sure, the war hadn’t been won. Her hometown was still in ruins, and there was still a decent chance that they’d spread through the rest of the world. But that was PEIP’s job now. She’d won the battle, and it seemed like she wouldn’t have to fight anymore. Not having to fight for her life, something that had been normal just a week ago, was now something so unbelievable that she felt a lump rise in her throat.

Emma was being flown directly to her own little farm, the only life goal she ever had. She wasn’t alone, she’d have Paul, someone she cared about more than she could have imagined. Maybe it wasn’t exactly how she expected. She wouldn’t be finishing community college anytime soon, and even if she’d vaguely imagined having someone with her she certainly hadn’t expected a man riddled with alien spores. Still, the prospect of having a future made her happy.

Happy, imagine that. She didn’t need to imagine anymore. It was reality. As the plane began its descent and the mountains peeked through the clouds, Emma smiled.

* * *

Epilogue

_ Six Months Later _

Emma drifted slowly to the surface of consciousness, her dreams fading away into a blur. She nuzzled her face into the back of Paul’s neck. She lay there for some time, just enjoying how comfortable she was. She should probably get up soon, get started with the day, but she didn’t have any boss prepared to fire her for being just a couple minutes late, and she wanted to appreciate that. It was only when the sun began to peek through the curtains and the birds outside decided it was time to sing directly outside their window that she grabbed her phone and sat up.

She’d fallen quickly into her comfortable routine, checking the news for any reports of people claiming their loved ones were suddenly singing for no reason. Emma relaxed more into her new life every day that passed with no change. 

Right on cue, Paul began to softly sing beside her. In his sleep. She’d gotten used to it ages ago - even this far away from the hive there was still something in him that made him inclined to sing. She’d questioned him about it as he sang to their crops one afternoon, asked if it bothered him. Paul told her that it didn’t, that it made him happy and he didn’t particularly care what the cause of that joy was. So Emma didn’t care either. 

It’d taken them both some time to get to that point. For a while, she’d jump at the sound of his voice, and the radio was off limits. Thankfully, they’d both healed enough to enjoy it. 

Maybe it was something about their little farm, so far away from any city. They felt cut off from the rest of the world, their own little bubble. Emma hadn’t expected appreciating that the way she did, but even more than that, Paul was thriving. He seemed happy with this routine and with her. 

Paul’s singing grew clearer as he woke as slowly as she had, until eventually she could hear the words. 

“_ What if I told you we made it, and this was the life that I chose? _” It was muffled by his pillow, but Emma snorted. That wasn’t his usual sleepy babble. She grabbed one of her pillows from the stack behind her and dropped it on his face. 

Paul laughed and pulled it off his face, letting it fall down the side of the bed. He continued, “_Would you even believe it Emma, do you believe in hope? _”

“Oh my fucking god.” Emma laughed. “You _ sap.” _She leaned down to cut him off with a kiss. 

* * *

Paul sat at the kitchen table, enjoying his coffee. Sure, he could feel in his bones that his new body didn’t want it, the extraterrestrial part of him balking at the strictly human chemicals, but he enjoyed the reminder of another time, and the warmth flooding through him that he couldn’t make by himself. It was the same with his glasses. His eyesight was much better than it had ever been, but he enjoyed playing the part. 

Paul rested his coffee onto the table with a clink, and turned the page of the newspaper to the beat that persisted through his mind. A steady thudding to replace the heartbeat that he couldn’t feel anymore. He still wished that Emma could hear it, the symphony that the world put together, the whole planet part of one grand orchestra. But mostly, he wanted Emma to be happy, and he trusted that she knew what she wanted.

Paul glanced out of the kitchen window and laid his head on his palm. He smiled. She was checking on the leaves of the plants nearest to the house, dutifully making sure they were happy and healthy, most of her face shrouded by an enormous sunhat. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. She insisted that talking to them made them grow faster, and Paul wasn’t going to argue. He could listen to her chatter to them all day. 

She moved onto the next stalk and started to hum, the sound reverberating through Paul’s skull. She’d probably picked up that habit from him. Ever since the guard PEIP stationed to watch them left four months ago, they’d slowly gotten freer with their voices. Giving those samples every day and constantly being careful to not let a single note leak out was exhausting, and they were both glad they weren’t under surveillance.

It wasn’t like the officer helped them with their work. Getting a pot farm out of a barren field had been difficult but rewarding work. Emma’s determination and botany skills were the only reason they’d gotten this far, but he was sure she’d attribute some of their success to his ability to work for hours without growing tired. There was a surprising amount of heavy lifting to be done, and she was maybe overly pleased with her partner’s superhuman strength. 

Paul drained his cup, his train of thought reminding him to go get join her. They had a long day ahead of them. One he wanted to spend with Emma. 

He stood to sort through the mail he’d brought in with the paper. Most of it was spam. Even off in the middle of nowhere, no one was free. He paused. There was a small package at the base of the stack, and he flipped it over. It was addressed to Ben Bridges and Kelly Kirkwood. There was no return address. 

Paul ripped it open. He pulled out the piece of paper first: a thick, expensive feeling paper that felt more suited to a wedding invitation than anything else. The writing on it was blocky and neat, clearly written by hand. It contained only six words. 

_ Thanks for your work. _

_ General _ _ McNamara _

Paul let out a breath of disbelief. He reached into the envelope, pulling out a tiny vial with a little black stopper. It was filled with fluorescent orange fluid, casting a glow onto the palm of his hand. He watched it splash around inside the glass. There was no questioning what it was. 

Paul tucked the note back into the envelope, gathering it with the spam mail. He tossed the whole pile out in the recycling with the glass firmly in his fist. Paul stood there for a moment longer, stealing a glance at the window, before sliding the vial into his pocket. 

Paul opened the door, smiling at Emma as he knelt beside her to get started with their day.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially inspired by @fencecollapsed Infected!Paul Good Ending AU, which you should absolutely check out. Incredible art!
> 
> Check me out over at @anxiousoddish and @autistic-paul on tumblr if you want to yell at me for anything! Comments mean the world to me.


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